Page 20 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

He stood and snatched my wrist. I bared my teeth, but it did nothing as he yanked me up.

Cold stone gave way to velvet runners beneath my bare feet as he dragged me down one corridor after another.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling me away, and I didn’t ask questions.

Not yet. I was too busy memorizing every turn, every gilded doorway, every flickering candle and security camera tucked into corners.

His estate wasn’t just expensive... it was perfectly curated. It had ornate paneling and antique oil paintings of dead-eyed noblemen. It reeked of old money and old secrets.

He stopped only once, pulling open a tall set of double doors carved with lions. A guard I hadn’t seen before bowed his head slightly as we passed. I didn’t miss the sidearm clipped to his hip or the faint bruising along his jaw. Maybe he’d been one of the idiots who let the others touch me.

Good. I hoped it hurt.

Waylon’s grip tightened as we entered what could only be described as his private quarters.

The bedroom was lavish in that cruel, mocking way with its gold-framed mirrors, silk sheets, and a chandelier.

But it was a cage. Nothing more than a beautifully wrapped hell.

The windows were sealed, and the walls were too pristine, like a hotel trying to forget it was also a prison.

One corner held a long table filled with files, laptops, and weapons. Another wall was lined with books, and for a moment, I hated that I noticed that detail. Hated that the man who took me might also read. He shoved the doors shut behind us with a quiet click.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, releasing my wrist. His voice was velvet over knives.

I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the ache. “I’m observing.”

He turned to face me, amused. “Observing what?”

“How to get out of here and fucking kill you.”

His smile didn’t fade, but something behind his sharp, dark eyes flickered. “You’re strong. Rafe always did like that about you.”

I tilted my chin. “And what is it you like about me, Waylon?”

He stalked forward, one step at a time. I didn’t retreat. “Your body,” he murmured, stopping inches from me. “And the fire you try to hide behind all that calculation. You’re not scared enough yet.”

I met his stare, refusing to blink. “You think hurting me will make you stronger than him?”

“No,” he said, too softly. “I think owning you will.”

What was with powerful men and owning women? These idiots.

The air between us snapped like a wire pulled too tight. I didn’t speak. I simply watched. His tells, his triggers, his patterns. I was going to survive this. And when the moment came, I would bury a knife in his throat and smile as the light left his eyes.

He turned away, pacing to a decanter of something dark. He poured one glass. Didn’t offer me any. “I’ll call for you when I’m ready,” he said. “Get comfortable.”

I stared at the bed. Then back at him. “You’ll die in that bed if you touch me.”

He chuckled. “God, you’re beautiful when you threaten me. But baby, you’re getting fucked in that bed. A lot.”

Then he left. The lock clicked into place behind him.

And I finally let the tremor slide down my spine before I crossed to the window and started counting the ways out.

The silence after he left was louder than his presence.

I stood motionless for a few seconds, listening to the shift of the house around me.

Footsteps overhead. A distant door shutting.

Faint hums of electricity. Wherever I was, it wasn’t underground anymore.

This was the heart of the estate. And Waylon had brought me here like I was a possession to use.

The curtains were heavy, expensive velvet, and when I peeled them back, I saw why. Wrought iron bars were fastened tightly across the panes. Beyond them, a sweeping forest stretched into darkness, the faint flicker of motion-detecting lights dotting a long gravel driveway.

A fortress.

I turned to the bookshelves next. My fingers ghosted over spines as I scanned titles. European history. Business ethics. A few in Russian. One thick red leather-bound journal with no title. I tried pulling it free, but it didn’t budge. Fixed.

I smirked. Hidden compartment?

The bed loomed in the center of the room like a threat. Crisp sheets. Oversized pillows. It smelled like cedar, expensive cologne, and something darker like copper and smoke.

I checked the nightstands. No weapons, but there was a lighter tucked behind a stack of papers, and I slipped it under the mattress. I didn’t know how or when I’d use it, but fire had always been a good friend.

Then I sat. Center of the bed. Spine straight. Breathing even. The silence crawled.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I knew what was fucking coming. My limbs were sore, and my stomach twisted with hunger. But I wouldn’t curl up. I wouldn’t look scared. I wouldn't give him that.

Then, my ears picked up the quiet sound of the lock turning. The door creaked open. Waylon stepped in, shirt unbuttoned and sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered. His mouth curled when he saw me still seated there, unmoved.

He shut the door slowly behind him and clicked the lock. “Good girl,” he said, voice like a dark reward. “Still where I left you.”

I didn’t say anything.

He approached slowly, dragging his fingers along the edge of the dresser before tossing something– a ring box? –onto it with a clatter. Then he turned to face me, that wicked smile curling deeper. “I’m ready for bed.”

My breath caught, but I didn’t flinch. My heart was a drum in my ears, but my face stayed blank.

He unbuckled his belt slowly, an infuriating smirk on his face. “I assume you know what that means, baby.”

I fucking hated when he called me that. Only Rafe did that. Only Rafe . I stood. “I know what you think it means,” I said, voice level.

His smile faltered, just a hair. I watched his every move as he stepped closer, the belt sliding from the loops of his trousers like a snake. He thought this was a game. Thought I was another one of his toys to bend and break.

But I’d survived worse than him. I’d survived Rafe. The Dark Monster of New York City.

I let him come close enough to smell the cologne hovering off his skin, to see the faint scar by his jawline.

And then I struck.

My knee drove straight into his groin with every ounce of power I had left.

He doubled over with a guttural sound, surprise flashing in his eyes. I didn’t wait. I launched at him, nails clawing, fists slamming against his ribs, jaw, throat–anywhere I could reach. I fought like hell. Like I was back in training with Rafe, like every blow was an opportunity to escape.

He roared and grabbed for me, but I twisted, managing to land another strike to his cheekbone. Blood bloomed from the split skin. “You fucking–” he hissed, shoving me.

I hit the floor hard, vision momentarily spinning, but I scrambled to my feet before he could pin me. “You want to see what Rafe trained me for?” I spat, bracing myself again. “Try me, motherfucker.”

His laugh was breathless and cruel. “I was hoping you’d be this fun.

” He came at me harder this time, faster, his size overwhelming.

I got one more punch in before he caught my wrists and yanked them behind me, dragging me against him with brutal force.

I kicked, screamed, and thrashed until my breath burned in my lungs, but he was stronger. And this time, he was ready for it.

I felt the scrape of the belt as he bound my wrists with it, and heard his panting breath in my ear.

“You’re a fighter,” he growled, now pinning me against the wall. “But I always win.”

My head smacked the plaster. Pain sparked at the base of my skull. My vision went white. “You’ll lose in the end, you know,” I whispered.

Waylon stilled for half a second. And then he laughed again, deeper this time. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “You already have.” He stormed away momentarily, leaving me bruised, bleeding, and furious. But not broken. If Rafe Vaughan hadn’t broken me, neither could this fucker.

I slid to the floor beside the bed, breathing hard, wrists raw from the belt.

My heart pounded as I thought about what he was doing.

I’d pissed him off. My soul jumped when the door slammed open, and Riley stormed in with a capped syringe in her hand.

Waylon was behind her, calm as ever, like he didn’t just spend the last hour proving what kind of man he was.

I staggered to my feet, my body still aching, head pounding from where he slammed me into the wall. “Don’t touch me you bitch ,” I hissed.

But it was too late.

Riley lunged forward with a vicious grin and jammed the needle into my neck.

I gasped, stumbling back, trying to slap her away, but the drug worked fast. Not enough to knock me out, but enough to make my limbs feel distant and my thoughts foggy.

“You coward,” I spat at Waylon as my knees buckled.

“You drug me because you’re afraid I’ll slit your fucking throat open.

” I collapsed to the floor, my cheek hitting the cool dark wood.

Riley laughed, standing above me like an annoying child. “Don’t worry, princess . It’s just to keep you nice and mellow. You’re a little too mouthy for polite company.” She twirled away, walking out without another glance. “Have fun, baby girl. He likes it rough.”

Waylon crouched beside me, watching with that familiar predator’s interest as I blinked slowly, trying to fight through the haze.

“You know what’s funny?” I rasped, jaw clenching. “You’re this big, powerful man… but you’re so threatened by me you need drugs to keep me still.”